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Nightingale

Pairing: dbf!ShaneWalsh x reader

This is part 3, find the first two parts on my page!

Summary: Tensions run high between you and your dad’s best friend at your homecoming barbecue.

Tags: Age- gap relationship, forbidden trope, dads best friend, no- outbreak TWD, TWD modern au, 18+ themes MDNI

Warnings: alcohol consumption, swearing, suggestive language, kissing, heavy petting, masturbation

a/n: Here’s part three! Enjoy x

Chapter Three: Homecoming Queen You woke on the morning of the barbecue at an ungodly hour, your dad banging down the door and tossing a pillow at your pounding head. “Let’s get moving, Bug, I want the backyard spiffy in two hours.”

You groaned and turned your phone over, cursing at the string of texts. Most were from Carla; unintelligible drunken spews of “did you get home safe” and “did you get lucky” but something else caught your eye. It was a text from an unknown number, one that simply read “let’s do that again sometime, babe.” Oh fuck. Tommy.

To his credit, last night hadn’t been so bad. He had fumbled a few times trying to get it in and at one point he had even started to rub your left lip vigorously, panting “that the spot, baby?” in your ear. Hey, at least you got to finish- most of the guys at college would just give you friction burn on your vagina and dip. In the cold light of day, however, it was starting to feel like a mistake; especially if Tommy was about to go all white picket fence on you again. God, what were you thinking? You couldn’t even really remember why you had-ohhh fuck. Shane. His blonde bimbo. You getting down like Jennifer Grey in dirty dancing while he watched…

“Alrighty!” You yell aloud to the room, kicking your legs out over the bed frame. “Time to get to work.”

————————-

You were trying on your fifth dress when the first few guests arrived, bearing cold salads and cold beers. You could really do with the latter right now. God, why were you so nervous? The backyard looks perfect; you had put up cute bunting and pulled out the garden furniture- as for what you were wearing, you doubted your pensioner neighbours would take much notice even if you walked out in a trash bag. So what was the churning feeling in your stomach? Was it Tommy? Hangxiety? Or was it the knowledge that Shane would be here soon, with his big stupid gorgeous…Nope. Not going there. You tugged back on the first dress you had tried on, a green sundress with lace trimmings and raked a hand through your curls. Game face on, bitch.

When you stepped out into the sun, the backyard was already milling with neighbours. You smiled at the ones you recognised; Mr Miller and his daughter Sarah from down the road, Old Mrs. Graham who made the best sugar cookies in the county plus a few others you remembered from school. You made a point of avoiding eye contact with Tommy, who arrived with the friends he used to hang with in school. The rest were your dads' buddies from the police force and random folks from town. You drifted around for a few hours, dipping in and out of conversations and offering around plates of food. It felt good to hear home accents again, to gossip with old friends from school and banter with your dads' coworkers. It also felt good to ignore Shane, whose eyes had been boring into your skull the past two hours. You knew without turning around that he had a smug smirk on his face and a wink that said he knows exactly what he does to you. You’d die before you gave him the satisfaction.

Later in the evening you were sat around the small bonfire, doubled over with laughter hearing Sarah Miller recall a story from junior year involving her and your old Phys Ed teacher who used to frequent the girl's locker room whenever he wanted. As the laughter died down, she turned to you.

“Hey, whatever happened to your music career?” she says, elbowing you playfully. “You used to promise all of us front row tickets to your sold out world tour, I’m not forgetting about that.”

You groan and cover your eyes. “Oh God, let's not even go there. I gave up on that about two days into Senior Year when I realised singing doesn’t get you a house and a steady job. That ship has looong sailed baby.”

Sarah frowns. “Are you kidding me? You don’t have a voice like yours and wish for a steady job. You should be headlining Madison Square and snorting coke with your groupies backstage!”

You choke on the beer halfway down your throat, pounding your chest and wheezing. “You have such a way with words, Sarah Miller.”

“No seriously!” She rebuts, “I still remember when you sang for graduation, you made my dad cry!”

You shake your head, amused. “Joel Miller? Crying? Now I really know you're messing with me, Sar.”

She goes to interject again when a crash sounds out behind you, and shouts go up. Whipping around quickly, you can vaguely make out two men laid out on the grass, trading blows. Jesus, if that’s not a sign to wrap this party up…

You follow the crowd over to the commotion, rolling up your non-existent sleeves and preparing to separate the brawlers. But when the crowd parts you gasp, your hand flying to your mouth. Laid out on the grass is Tommy Benson, his lip bloodied, sneering at the man who had him pinned down by the collar. And the man doing the pinning was Shane fucking Walsh.

“What the fuck?” you shout, pushing the onlookers aside and sprinting to their side. In a panic, you latch onto Shane’s elbow and yank with all your strength, your heels dug into the grass to pull his hulking weight from Tommy. Your dad has emerged from the crowd and has Tommy by the back of his shirt, hauling him backwards in the grass and pulling him upright. Shane falls back against you, his back meeting your chest, panting hard. He spins around to confront whoever pulled him off, his eyes wild and his jaw tight. Seeing you, he stills like a deer in headlights, his mouth opening and closing with no sound. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as the crowd parts, allowing your dad through with Tommy, leading him out the back gate. With the crowds' backs turned you seize the moment, grabbing Shane’s hand and hauling him into the house. Shane doesn’t say a word as you pull him up the stairs, staying silent as you drag him into your room and shut the door behind you. Neither of you speak as you walk into your en suite, running a cloth under the tap for his bloodied face while he paces back and forth by your window. The anger rolls of him in waves, his hands curled into fists, his jaw working and his broad shoulders tight.

“Sit down, Shane” you order, pointing to your bed.

He shakes his head silently, not meeting your eyes and you snap. “Shane, sit the fuck down.”

He finally stops pacing, his wide eyes meeting yours as he crouches and sits on the edge of your bed. He holds your gaze as you come to stand in front of him, spreading his knees to let you in closer.

“What the fuck was that, huh?” you demand, bringing the cold cloth to his split brow, ignoring his hiss of pain.

Shane doesn’t speak, he just looks up at you, his eyes flitting between your own, like he’s trying to discern what you’re thinking.

Annoyed, you press the cloth into the cut harder and he curses, his hand shooting out and gripping onto your hip. You try to ignore the heat of his palm, the press of his fingers so close you may aswell have nothing on.

“You” he mutters, his gaze on the hand at your waist. “It was about you.”

Now it’s your turn to be silent, struck dumb at the admission. “Me? What do I have to do with you pinning Tommy Benson to the ground?” you splutter.

“I heard him. I heard that little shit bragging about you to his bonehead friends” his voice is rough as he speaks, “he was telling them how he took you home last night, told ‘em he had your panties down in his backseat. Told ‘em how your body looked, how you sounded, he said you- “He trails off at the last with a curse, his fingers spasming tighter on your hip.

You squeeze your eyes shut, your cheeks burning. Fucking Tommy. You should’ve known he’d mouth off. He did tell you that the people in this town had nothing better to do. You don’t care so much about whatever Tommy had said, boys like him will always brag. You’re just embarrassed at the thought of Shane hearing those things about you- did he think you were some cheap whore now? Was he disgusted by you? Wait, why should you care? He didn’t seem too bothered last night when he had his tongue down some randoms throat.

Annoyance flares up in you, “And what, you were protecting my honour? I don’t need you fighting off suitors for me, Shane, I’m a grown woman. And I don’t care what he says about me.”

“I care!” Shane grounds out, his jaw flexing, “I care when he’s disrespecting you, I care when he’s talking about his hands on your body, I care when he’s mouthing off about how you sound and how you fucking taste, kid!”

You swallow, stepping closer until your knees hit the inside of his thighs. His mouth parts slightly, looking up at you with a loaded stare.

“And why do you care, Shane?” you challenge.

His throat bobs and his gaze drops, the hand on your waist dropping down to finger the lace hem of your dress, his knuckles brushing the hot skin of your thigh.

His touch makes you bold, and you slowly drop to your knees in-front of him, your hands coming up to rest on his knees. He raises his brows at you, his pupils blown out, not making any move to stop you.

“I said, why would you care about that, Shane?” you blink up at him, eyelashes fluttering.

He holds your stare and his hand comes back up to bracket your hip, his thumb rubbing hot circles into the soft flesh. “I tell you yet how fucking gorgeous you look in this dress, kid?”

You suck a breath in, your mind short circuiting at the feel of his thumb at your hip. Your hands inch higher on his legs, trailing up onto the hard muscle of his thigh. Breathing hard, his forehead comes to fall on yours, his nose knocking against your own. Your mouth parts on instinct, and his eyes follow the movement, his free hand shooting up to cradle your jaw and his thumb pulling the soft flesh of your lip down, watching as it flips back into place. You whine quietly, your skin hot and thrumming with need. His jaw flexes once, twice, as if he’s holding himself back, and then- “Ah, fuck.”

He surges toward, his lips crashing against your own. His mouth is hot and insistent against yours, devouring it like he can’t control himself. His tongue darts out to run across the seam of your lips, pushing into your mouth roughly and you suck on it hungrily. His hand flies up and gropes your breast through your dress, his fingers pinching your nipple, making you moan out.

His head jerks back suddenly, mouth pulling off yours, groaning when he sees the string of saliva between your lips. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and takes your own, hauling you up roughly to your feet.

“Jesus, what am I doing,” he swears “what the fuck am I doing. We can’t do this you’re…you’re…fuck, kid, we can’t do this.”

He stands abruptly, and looks at you one last time, his expression tortured at the stunned look on your face. And then he turns and stalks out the door, slamming it behind him, leaving you alone in the room. What the hell was that.

—————————-

That night, Shane grapples with sleep. He turns over, and back again, groaning and cursing as he does so. The clock on his bedside reads 3:40am. Fucking great. He knows why he can’t sleep. Every-time, he shuts his eyes, he sees it. You, on your knees at his feet, your big doe eyes gazing up at him. When he turns his ear to the pillow, he can still hear it. The wet smack of your lips against his, the fucking sound you made when his hand was full of your- stop. Jesus Christ, Shane, she’s a kid. She’s Ricks kid. But he couldn’t stop, your face was printed on the backs of his eyelids. Your eyes, your hair, your smile, your laugh. The soft feel of your skin, the constant dare in your eyes, the sweet sounds he knew you would make if your lips were wrapped around his cock. Ah, fuck it.

Shane pulls the waistband of his boxers down hurriedly, groaning aloud when his hand meets his semi hard dick. The rough of his palm is nothing compared to your gentle hands stroking his thighs, but he’s too far gone to care, his fist rocking up and down his shaft rapidly, squeezing it tight. Would you squeeze it this tight? Would your hand be big enough to wrap around his whole cock or would you use two? God, he was a sick, sick bastard. He could see it in his mind, his hand running down your bare back, your face buried in the pillow while he rocked into your mercilessly. If he thought hard enough, he could almost feel the tight grip of your- “FUCK” he shouts, his hand stilling as he finishes, his spend splashing onto his stomach. Breathing hard, he grabs tissue from his bedside and cleans himself off. He would never let this happen again.

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